


The Slings and Arrows of Outrageous Misfortune

by Sherlockwatsonholmesblog



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Don't copy to another site, Emotional Trauma, Estranged Friends to Lovers, Five Stages of Grief, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Post-Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, Recovery, Rosamund Mary "Rosie" Watson - Freeform, Self-Hatred, Self-Reflection, Slow Burn, musings about death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:28:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25496095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlockwatsonholmesblog/pseuds/Sherlockwatsonholmesblog
Summary: There seems to be something tragic in a friendship so coloured by romance, for they have loved each other immensely. However, Some Days, love isn’t enough.Sherlock and John persevering,as always.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 42
Kudos: 52





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I would first like to thank my betas, Kat (@Sherlockwatsonholmes) and Jo (@Jobooksncoffee). You've both been incredible to me, supporting me, encouraging me and sometimes even correcting the many mistakes that I might have made in this story. Lots of love to you both, I owe my first of many to you.  
> 

“Are you okay?”

John’s steps faltered at the threshold of 221B and he slowly turned around. Sherlock was staring at him with his glassy cerulean eyes, no doubt deducing him this very second. His eyes were eerily capable of that, he’d been the object of their scrutiny many times now, but it still made him push his weight around his feet, he could only imagine what other people went through when the heat of the same gaze was directed at them. Sherlock looked earnestly at John, concern flickering under the veil of a placid but hardened disguise. A disguise kept up for most of his life, a safety net so carefully and immaculately constructed, to protect the fragile organ that lay beyond. A disguise, a façade, a second skin to pull over himself to keep it warm from the slings and arrows of unabashed hatred and contempt. What kind of a life had Sherlock lived and known with no one to call his friend, no one to have his back in time of need? A hard, icy shell to protect that damned heart. 

_Protect,_

John inwardly scoffed at himself.

_Wasn’t that his job at one point? To protect Sherlock?_ To honour the man, the friendship? The relationship? 

He once killed a man on their first night together, just to _protect him_. He offered Moriarty his life, just to _protect him_. There was once a time in his life when he would’ve done _anything_ to protect this man, given up his _life, his reputation_. But it was _Sherlock_ who eventually did what John promised to do but failed to achieve. Sherlock always waltzed into chaos head first at the eleventh hour and saved John one way or the other. Whether it was by chasing down cabbies and curing his psychosomatic limp or it was by corroborating John while he stood wrapped up in a semtex facing their mutual worst nightmare. He stood opposite him, brandishing an illegal Browning while John toyed and choked with their fate and Sherlock's greatest nemesis. John even gave him a way out, but he stood planted to the tiles that lay beneath their feet.

_Run._

He’d demanded,

Sherlock had pulled his gun instead.

_An easy way out._

But he chose John, he _always_ did. _And now?_

The only thing that he could concentrate on was the bloody eye, the gaunt face, the several haunting images of bruised ribs, split lip, the cut on the eyebrow and the way he looked at John remorsefully with trepidation,the only thing that might be missing would be Sherlock imperceptibly flinching _,_ and John would be done in. _Have you finally succumbed to your cruelty, Watson? The bullet should’ve killed you in the war instead, don’t you think?_ His thoughts circled around self hatred, that burned hot beneath his sternum as John bit his lip. Harder and harder, until it split and bled again.

What had he done? 

Unleashed hell on a man who gave his whole life just to protect him. What _kind_ of man does that? What kind of a man was _he?_

John wanted to turn away, forget the last few days, _the days before. He wanted to forget everything, even Sherlock._ He wanted nothing but to wrap himself around the black hole of despair and self loathing. He wanted to climb down to the bottom of a pit and never allow himself to leave.There were a lot of things John wanted for himself, a great many things that his damned heart ached and longed for. Yes, just as the heart that Sherlock kept behind an icy exterior, not unlike a diamond itself. Unbreakable, until one fateful day where it had cracked to let John in and it might have been his worst mistake, John thought. He didn’t trust himself, least of all with something as precious as Sherlock’s feelings and his friendship, not now anyway. For someone who rarely let other people see his vulnerabilities, snapping at everyone instead, he felt undeserving of it - the treasure of Sherlock’s carefully contained feelings.

“ _John.”_ Sherlock called out softly, but John couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even move, like an animal caged in a prison cell, waiting to be put down. _It wasn’t fun, was it? Being put down?_

He kept staring back at Sherlock’s face as the images of the morgue and the rooftop floated in front of his very eyes. It had been foolish of him to think that he would walk away from this crippling tragedy as if all was fine. Drinking himself into oblivion, not seeing Sherlock, not picking up his calls, passing his daughter on from friend to friend. It was simply _unacceptable._ The therapist was wrong, he wasn’t setting himself up to ungodly expectations, he wasn’t even trying to set himself up to _any_ expectations, recovery required goals. _Had he set any goals? Benchmarks?_

_No._

“John, are _you_ okay?” John’s thoughts snapped back to reality as he prepared himself to speak, how could he answer a question like that? That he was definitely not alright? That he was holding on to a monument of memory, giving fuel to the fire of a façade of a relationship. A relationship whose foundations were based on lies and mistrust. 

_Mary._

The one falsehood that ended the relationship that even the great Moriarty with his games and planning couldn’t. Neither his snipers, nor fear of repercussions,not even the fear of death could.

_But Mary did_ and _oh, how so spectacularly she achieved that._

If this life has become the penance for some _sin_ they’ve committed, if the price for this penance is a chance at _them_ , then John doesn’t have the strength for it. John was not a superstitious man, but it seemed impertinent to ignore the presence of a deity when your life has spiralled so brilliantly out of control.

He cleared his throat and said,

“No, I am not okay. I’ll-- I’ll never be okay and we just have to accept that.”

“Why should we accept that?”, Sherlock asked.

“Because it is what is, and what it is--”

He cleared his throat and sniffed aggressively, “-- is shit.”

Sherlock stared up at John, eyes still filled with concern. These eyes that stripped a man bare of his existence, filled with unfathomable sadness and regret, still had _enough_ depth of emotion in them to hold some concern for John. Sherlock had the corners of his mouth downturned into a frown, and John wondered.

_Aren’t you the reason for this frown? The sadness in his eyes, the remorse that was evident on his face._

John felt his eyes sting with tears, _oh god why did you let me live?_ He sniffed, cleared his throat and looked away. He just couldn’t bear seeing the damage he’d done to the _one man he had ever loved,_ and probably the only one he would ever love.

_Is this your love, Watson? Bloody, full of rage and violence? You’re not the only one who has ever mourned. You’re nothing special._

What kind of adventure was he searching for? The pain of going through mourning twice in one lifetime was enough to last him for several, but blaming the only man who came back from the throes of death itself , _just for him_ ? There was no loyalty and faith in that, only a burden he had to carry for the rest of his short life _. It was unbearably heavy_

_Yes, but he’d have to make do_ , alone. _Again?_

Wave after wave these thoughts made John’s whole body tremble, “She was wrong about me.” He blurted out.

“Mary? How so?” asked Sherlock from where he stood with concern on his face.

“I cheated on her.” John confessed, the guilt ploughing through his heart, clenching it in a vice like grip and John felt his formerly steady hands shake under it’s strain.

_How am I supposed to go on like this?_

Is it really necessary to go on then? You can’t move the mountain, you can just climb it but John was extremely tired. He had climbed this particular type of mountain many times now but this very new and freshly upturned one was too huge. It was higher than _The Fall_ and wider than the _abandonment_ of his marriage. This was _guilt_ , and John had no strength to climb out of guilt.

John had _no strength_ at all.

“No clever comeback?” He asked vehemently.

“I cheated on you Mary.” He turned towards Mary. 

_Mary._

Who wasn’t really there, a figment of his imagination to soothe his guilty conscience. His brain’s way of seeking redemption from a woman whom he cheated on, a woman who _lied_ about _everything_ , a woman who _almost_ killed his best friend, the rampant runner of his woeful imagination. 

Sherlock blinked, perhaps realizing what was happening, but stayed silent as he turned his head towards where John was looking. “There was this girl on the bus and I had been playing with Rosie, so I had this plastic daisy in my hair...” he paused, this definitely felt better. Sharing his story, no matter how selfish it was to lift the burden off his deplorable shoulders and share it with Sherlock. 

This was _wrong_ , _very_ wrong, and he knew it.

But the floodgates had finally opened and no amount of military training and adrenaline could stop it besides, it killed two birds with one stone. It gave Sherlock the opportunity to witness the man he had become. The man he actually was, the reason why he was so alone and owed Sherlock so much , he could finally bring himself to say what he had been carrying with himself ever since it had happened.

“She just smiled at me, and we texted constantly.” He whispered, and tried to gather himself but failing spectacularly to do so. “You wanna know when? Every time you left the room, that’s when. When you were feeding our daughter; when you were stopping her from crying – that’s when.” John said to Mary,

“That’s all it was though, just texting.”

His eyes stung badly, his vision blurring with tears as he felt his throat close up like a ball had lodged into it. Mary’s face stared back at him, waiting for the other shoe to drop, she was him after all and she knew the weight of the words he was about to say next and whom they were _actually_ meant for.

“But I wanted more.” He said, aware that Sherlock’s eyes were no longer staring at him. 

“And d’you know something? I still do. I’m not the man you thought I was; I’m not that guy. I never could be. But that’s the point.” Sherlock was something he wanted but couldn’t touch, trapped behind a glass door. The door which John could never possibly open because he wasn’t worthy of it, it was him in all his glory but still out of his reach, a pipe dream. Just like sand, slipping from between his fingers the more he tried to grab hold of it. 

Sherlock’s eyes snapped to John.

He couldn’t control it any longer, the tidal wave of emotions overwhelmed him, his vision blurred completely and he felt the tears trickle down as he choked out tearfully, “That’s the whole bloody point--”

John said, “Who you thought I was...

... Is the man who I want to be.” Mary thought John to be perfect, a man who never complained, who had no demands. But John was far from it, and he was tired of maintaining himself on this pedestal of morality and goodwill of which he was incapable of.

Mary never really saw the real John, only Sherlock did and he was the only one willing to accept John for who he was.

Only _a man._

Painfully _human_ after all, even though he was _John Watson_.

_I want to be, but am I capable of being?_

And as Mary’s visage crumpled and vanished before his very eyes, he felt his shoulders hunch from the pressure of immaculateness lifting off them and disappearing, just like she did. Leaving in its place a Pandora’s Box of destruction and quivering mess instead of the square shouldered and a solid spine man that he used to be.

John stared ahead of himself for a few moments;his mind emptied of any lingering thoughts as he gradually lowered his head into his left hand and began to cry. He just couldn’t do it anymore, his heart cleaved in two and all the essence of a soldier representing strength and courage left his body, emotions flowed out of every pore.

*****************************

Sherlock saw it happen, saw the head as it gradually lowered and as John’s whole body began to shake and tears pricked at Sherlock’s eyes. This wasn’t supposed to happen. John wasn’t supposed to break; he was the soldier, the doctor, the comforter. And what was Sherlock? Sherlock was only capable of giving closure after the destruction; he had neither any idea how to prevent nor how to cushion someone’s journey through it. He dealt with hard facts and cold logic, a _solace_ indeed. Making it a plausible option for him to detach from emotions in any situation and keep his character intact while he ploughed forward without caring about anyone he left behind. But this wasn’t just _anyone_ , this was John Watson and _damn it_ if Sherlock wouldn’t jump into this particular pit as well to help him out. He would never go into a battle unarmed, but for John? 

_Without hesitation._

_I had no idea, how could I have not known that John was hallucinating Mary. I’m supposed to know everything._

_What use am I?_

Sherlock slowly stood up, ignoring his aching limb and ribs in the process. Of all the injuries that his body had sustained, John’s hurt him the most. Maybe because love hurts you the most, or the _one_ you love hurts you the most. The age old cliché of baring your back as you bare your heart to be beaten up and thrown back at your face, it was painful and paralyzing which made Sherlock wonder. Did he actually want to suffer this outrageous misfortune that turned out to be his life, or does he oppose them and end it once and for all?

He circled one arm around John’s broad back and used the other to hold the nape of his neck. _This is comfort; I’m trying to comfort you, John. Please let me, don’t reject me..._ _Please_ .

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay.” John murmured, with his face buried in Sherlock’s chest.

“No,-- but it is what it is.” It was true, this relationship, this life made him a fortress, the one which you couldn’t possibly punch your way through. John kept his sorrow hidden inside his small and unassuming body and Sherlock kept his hidden behind the visage of a cold and calculating machine.

_A fortress, indeed_. 

_He comforted John, but who was going to comfort him? He’d been beaten after all._

**_Stop it, what are you doing?_ **

_How many times would he have to lose everything just to keep John safe?_

**_Stop._ **

_Just to protect him from all the follies in the world?_

**Stop it.**

_How much of his reputation, work, blood and tears did he have to lose?_

**_Please stop_ **...

**_How much did he have to lose on the altar of John Watson?_ **

_And then a long forgotten, but still persisting ghost whispered back._

**_Caring is not an advantage, brother mine_ ** **.**

Mycroft had been right.

Sherlock stiffened, what was he even thinking about? This was not the time to drown in his own sorrow, this was not the time to be vulnerable. This was certainly not the time wallow in self pity. This was the time to build their life again, to what it was before the unfortunate events of the Roof.

_But how?_

Uncertainty gathered like poison in his mind, doubt had made its home in Sherlock’s hard drive and it was no less than a virus. Making him question his friendship, filled his head and heart with heavy resentment that sat like lead and nested in his organs. The doubt and uncertainty that his brain harbored in the disguise of Mind Palace Mycroft was just the beginning, he could see the steps from here on out. He could almost taste it, the glimpse into a future where this black hole of doubt would grow, keep growing until it swallowed them whole. The future where Sherlock and John would come to resent each other, hate each other, ending into heartbreak, desperation and relapse. It almost seemed inevitable, the relapse. The siren call of his dreadful old habits followed him around like a second voice in his head, a form of punishment that only Sherlock could hear. It was for all intents and purposes, inherently _torturous_.

Revelation was the only thing that could uncurl these threads of immense emotions that stretched like the sea between them.

But ah, here was the rub.

For the most perceptive man in the world, who could read anyone’s life history in their shoes and the folds of their shirt, hidden emotions in their eyes and haggard faces and their will to live in psychosomatic limps, He was unbearably blind when it came to the most obvious.

John Watson _._

_You do remember what happened, last time when you were vulnerable?_

The echo from the ghost of his past, the virus, the arch nemesis. Sherlock’s only fear in this whole world, capable of freezing his brain and harvesting on his feelings even after being long turned to dust.

**_Moriarty_ **

_How did it feel like to leave the wedding early?_

**_Oh god, stop it. Just shut up._ **

_You know I’m right Sherlock, what was it like? Being vulnerable and giving a speech on his wedding?_

**_Stop talking, I don’t--_ **

_Tell me, what good did caring do to you?_

Sherlock grunted and tightened his arms around John. This was a test and Sherlock knew it, breaking his will wasn’t anyone’s trong suit, he was a stubborn man after all. But this was logical, sound reasoning that his brain was providing to strengthen the remnants of his self preservation and the brick walls around his heart. The hug was nothing but a cruel joke that his brain was pulling on his heart, _how ironic._

Sherlock closed his eyes against the overwhelming tide of emotions that washed over him. These were the warning signs of a dam about to be shattered into pieces by the force of the water heading it’s way. If he didn’t control it soon enough, he would get swept along too. His emotions would be the ultimate wrecking of him, but that wasn’t new, was it?

_Don’t let your heart rule over Sherlock, it’s too weak and clumsy._

He was a practical man, head governed the heart, the perfect calculating machine that John embellished in his fictions. Right now, he was struggling to keep his head and heart apart. They were merged, his brain covered in a fog, mind feeling numb, heart trying to take control. How was he possibly supposed to function like this? The once in a blue moon event where his heart regained its strength, became brave and broke out of it’s cage to just _feel._ Made him feel nauseous in the face of it’s rejection, bereft and all alone in the sky. _Once in a blue moon_ , a fitting metaphor for a man like him.

Solitary.

Just like the moon.

_Control it, Sherlock._

**_I can’t, it’s John._ **

_Control._

_Control._

_Control._

But yes, Sherlock was a calculating machine after all, and love was nothing but vicious motivator,the grit in the lens, the fly in the ointment, a chemical defect found in the losing side, he had a myriad of possible explanations that could break down the feeling of love into the smallest, least creative and expressive particles. It was after all a mixture of hormones wasn’t it? Dopamine, oxytocin and serotonin.

_Dopamine, oxytocin and serotonin. DopamineOxytocinandSerotonin.. SerotoninDopamineandoxytocin.._ _Serotonin—_

Sherlock had at some point lowered his head onto John’s and was standing with his arms wrapped around a small soldier who’d been strong for far too long. All of John’s muscles were tense, like a freshly strung violin, waiting to be struck to ebb away the last remnants of adrenaline from his body. There was an inevitable crash, John’s body would fail to uphold the peace between his instincts and his feelings and he would crash or more appropriately _fall._ It was painfully evocative of Sherlock’s crash from a high, where his whole body jittered, the very nerves inside his carefully compact body ached, his skin crawled and he eventually sagged into the pull of despair and let it drown him.

John had stopped trembling and proceeded to sniffle the last bits of grief that he was capable of showing. He felt John’s shoulders hunch and his grip on Sherlock’s shirt loosened, he felt John pull away and waited for him to slide out of his arms.

And they would walk on eggshells again, round and round in circles around each other like bees, _never_ really talking about any of it.

But, John didn’t pull away. He loosened his grip a little and stared up at Sherlock with his dark blue eyes. The eyes which many mistook for dark brown, a shell or more appropriately a disguise, just like the very man himself. An unassuming doctor, with gentle but firm hands for healing the injured but capable of killing a man in cold blood. The soldier under the soft covers of a beige jumper and a soft but childish smile. Sometimes, after a truly ridiculous chase when his whole body thrummed with adrenaline and his every sense soared with the all too familiar post-case high, he allowed himself a momentary slip where he would stare into John’s cobalt eyes and John would simply stare back, like a deer caught in the headlights. And at his very small moment of self indulgence, Sherlock would let the mariana trenches of John’s eyes swallow him whole. 

From one such instance a sweet memory of an innocent period of time, floated from the periphery of Sherlock’s mind and was trapped in the chambers of his heart.

_“That was amazing, and possibly the most ridiculous thing that I’ve ever done_ in my whole life.” _John heaved as he slumped against the wall. Breathing heavily from the exhaustion and quite frankly, an intense workout but exhilarating chase across the city for a cab._

_A cab!_

_“ And you invaded Afghanistan.” Sherlock’s deep voice rumbled, breathing heavily just the same. An exhilarating run no doubt, but that wasn’t the point of it at all. It was specifically for John, but his thoughts were interrupted by John’s high pitched giggle, and before Sherlock could realize what was happening his own mouth broke out into a soft smile, “That wasn’t just me.” John said in between breaths, and they both doubled over laughing like a pair of school boys._

Another one just after that, where Sherlock felt warmth unfurl out from somewhere at the middle of his chest and spread to his other organs for the first time in a long time. The first night out together, what a perfect time to have been truly alive.

“ _Oh just passing the time, and proving a point.”_

_“What point?”_

_“You.” He felt his toes tingle and cheeks warm but he turned his face away to shout, “Mrs. Hudson! Doctor Watson will take the room upstairs.” His voice boomed in the empty hallway._

_“Says who?” John asked, as his eyes shone and the corners of John’s mouth turned up almost imperceptibly in great mischief, breaking out in small increments in all nooks and crannies of his face._

_“Says the man at the door”, and as John looked back in equal parts amusement and affection, he felt himself reciprocate all the same with equal amounts of fondness and affection as a genuine smile broke out on his face and they both stared at each other, caught in the moment. Where one stood outside the threshold of baker street, and the other inside but both beginning the adventure of a lifetime._

_Both of them beginning a new life together._

_Both of them no longer alone_ _._

But Sherlock was pulled away from his happy memories that seemed like they were from another lifetime and belonged to some other John and Sherlock. He felt chapped lips that tasted like tears, firmly press themselves against his lips. For a moment he was completely stumped, his eyes widened in shock before he took in the scene before him. John had been kissing him, was kissing him in fact and he felt hope bloom in his chest accompanied by the same honey like liquid trickling out from somewhere middle in his chest. He had wanted this for so long, _it had been so long._ He felt himself surge forward and kiss back with renewed vigor before his brain switched on.

_Control Sherlock, control._

_You’re loosing control._

**_I need it, from him.._ **

_Sherlock._

**_Just a second more._ **

_Redbeard?_

Sherlock’s eyes flew open and he gently tried to push John off him. “John, stop.”, he whispered painfully.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “No, I suppose not. But I’m not really your friend anymore, am I?” John said, a bit louder, hands still clasped behind his back but unbearably steady. “I’m not your friend Sherlock, obviously I’m not.” John said, as Sherlock turned his back to him to hide the grimace that threatened to show up on his face, uninvited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’d like to reiterate that there are two forms of internal dialogue here for Sherlock, the bold+italics is his primary and only italics is his secondary.  
> That said, all forms of constructive criticism is appreciated.  
> Last but not the least I’d like to thank both of my betas Kat and Jo, whom I’ve mentioned before but they are amazing so I’ll mention them again.

John could feel Sherlock pushing him off, he could hear him say something that vaguely resembled _“Stop!_ ” but John felt like his ears were flooded with water. He could hear muffled sounds but all he felt was the rush of blood soaring in his ears accompanied by the systemic heart pounding in his chest. John just couldn’t stop, he wanted to kiss every expanse of skin on Sherlock’s body, every limb and rib that he had bruised, every cut that he had made, every frown that he was the reason for. He just couldn’t find it in himself to let Sherlock go; he feared that if he did, he would _lose him completely again_. John had suffered many things in his life, from harboring feelings for an unattainable man, to marrying someone else in presence of the said, man. He had watched his best friend fall to his death. He had watched his wife die as blood spurted out from the centre of her chest, and trickled down his fingers as he applied pressure. He’d seen Sherlock being carted away on a plane to a suicide mission while he did nothing, but he’d also watched as his life unraveled in the hands of a woman who almost killed Sherlock.

_He had seen it all._

But what John Watson seemed incapable of doing, was leave before he got the chance to taste what Sherlock felt like. It had been a life of too many missed opportunities, too many close calls for him not to show what he felt, even if that meant putting the weary strand of their friendship on a slow burner. He’d wanted this, _god he’d wanted this._ Call it redemption, but for a man of seemingly very few words and expressive emotions, like John, it was the only way he could apologize, redeem himself, and finally claim Sherlock. This was his last bet, a final reckless bet before the table packed again and circumstances demanded a show of hands. His last adrenaline fuelled decision before he inevitably spiraled down or out of Sherlock’s life like a top spun by a string. His string was his overburdening past and bleak future where desperation and chemical defects trapped his present in the throes of it’s death grip. It was more a death bed, laid because of the consequences of his own actions, a painful and suffocating death bed for his feelings he settled into because it was of his very own making.

_God, what a painful way to go._

A one last chance scenario felt imperative, it was Sherlock and John after all and they were nothing if they weren’t dramatic with their declarations, a do or die couple who wouldn’t be able to stand the withering of their relationship like some wilted flower which hadn’t been taken care of. It would be make or break **,** a leap of faith.

 _One last time_.

But the universe was cruel in it’s own ways, and destiny scarcely worked the way you wanted it to. Sherlock pushed him again, “John, stop this.” He said a bit louder this time, but John pushed harder into him, into his mouth with fingers gripping his waist firmly.

John felt Sherlock’s body tense, and he concentrated on the hands that not a moment ago encircled his hunched shoulders protectively, the hands and arms that had been ready to bear the brunt of a bigger fall where his body crumpled against the weight of the wreckage that he called his life, he felt as the same hands now came to rest on the center of his chest, ready to push him back. He’d felt Sherlock surge forward but that may have been his imagination, he wasn’t really sure right at this moment.

Sherlock had his lips firmly closed, unresponsive to any of John’s ministrations. He’d felt a rush of disappointment and relief, at least he hadn’t been wrong about what Sherlock felt for him even though his final bet may have possibly broken their relationship to the point of no return.

“John.” Sherlock growled, the vibrations from his body passing to the base of John’s spine through the contradictory tussle of their pressed bodies, like an impulse moving through nerve fibers in the body.

_Brain to the heart, brain to the muscles, brain to his very fingertips._

This was no longer just love for John, this was his way to pick a fight. To have bruises and aches, so that he could feel his guilt lessen. He wanted Sherlock to be what he’d been before he sacrificed everything for John’s happiness again and again, the Sherlock that glided into a room with his coat collar turned up with his ridiculous cheekbones ready to eviscerate half of Scotland Yard’s finest because he was rude, arrogant and took up the whole space in a room even though he was shorter than he looked in photos, the blazing animal that glowed and radiated energy during case so much so, as to make the mere mortals in his vicinity quiver in their places. Sherlock went on and on about his case, talking at breakneck speed while he insulted Anderson and simultaneously solved a double homicide. He wanted Sherlock to be that again. A man who thrummed with energy, a man who was the first to give John’s life a purpose, acting like an anchor to reality constantly. The man whose eyes used to blaze when John stared at them.

_Not this._

This man who was sitting in front of him, looked nothing like the one John had in his mind, this man looked liked a hollow version of that sleuth, whose shoulders were hunched and who was desperately trying to push John off himself, who had stopped chastising him completely, who’d become too polite, _who had planned his wedding for goodness’ sake_. Sherlock’s eyes no longer shined. John looked into them and only found profound sadness and remorse looking back at him. He desperately wanted that fire back, because it was Sherlock’s at his very core, and if John couldn’t bring that back for this man, then what use had he been. He wanted a fight now, a safety net to cushion his rejection, so that the last image that floated through his mind was not of Sherlock, defenceless. Sprawled on the floor of the morgue, with blood coming out of his nose and mouth.

 _No_ ,

he wanted Sherlock to fight, just so that the picture burned into his mind would dissolve.

_Just so he could witness that shine one last time._

“John!” Sherlock shouted and hit John on his chest, “What are you doing? Hmm _?_ Am I some kind of a rag doll, that you use whenever _you_ want?” Sherlock growled as his fists struck savagely on John’s chest, _yes_ he wanted Sherlock to do this. He wanted Sherlock to show him some fight, some way to reassure his troubled mind that the fire still burned in Sherlock’s heart. This was _toxic_ , he knew but he couldn’t bring himself to care at the moment. He revelled in the wake of the pain that sprouted in his chest as Sherlock hit him. Much like the pain he’d always felt in Sherlock’s presence, but better than the longing, guilt and unrequited love that made his whole body ache with desire. That pain was a slow but constant ache of a missing presence in his mind that made his whole body tremble,

_but this pounding?_

This was _sharp_ and _focused_ , directly over his heart which left his thoughts crystal clear, he felt like he deserved this and _oh_ , so much more. He wasn’t scrambling for purchase with this pain. This didn’t leave his center off kilter as the ache of desperation. This was swift and sweet _._

_And most definitely better._

_Very good Sherlock, that’s it. You always know what I want._

_Keep pounding._

“.. I’m not your carer, that you use and throw and who you _approve of_ whenever you feel like it.” John pinched his eyes shut, is _that what Sherlock thought of him? That he thought of him as a rag doll, to use and throw?_

He felt Sherlock strike again and ached with intensity, but the pain came not only from the fists, Sherlock’s word cut just as deep. “Are you even listening to me?!” John felt more than heard those words cut him, he recoiled as the words jostled his very being but not soon enough to save himself from the hard punch that Sherlock threw at him.

The punch was not in slow motion as it was in most movies, it was a train wreck at its top speed. The fist which hovered in mid air connecting with his face in a blink of an eye, provoked his body’s primary reaction, shock, as it readied itself to fight the mortal enemy. John’s whole body shuddered with renewed energy before he fully processed what had happened. Sherlock had finally hit him, and with this last and final retaliation, John felt their bond snap and the feeling of overwhelming numbness surrounded him. He swayed on his side as his body stopped shuddering. The adrenaline built up evaporated with the feeling of doom and despair that had settled over his heart like lead. He fell on his left knee as pain bloomed behind his eyes. He felt blood trickle down his nose, his whole body trembled with shock because of the punch. His cheek ached and so did his eye but the superficial physical pain was swift and painful, incapable of distracting him from the slow ache that he felt spreading outwards from his chest. The ache of inevitable doom and demise, a tether of emotional attachment, snapped at the hands of two men who loved each other so much that destroyed their own moralities and boundaries.

He swiped the blood with the back of his hand and pinched his nose as he looked up at Sherlock to see him towering over him, eyes wild, rage seeping through him. Sherlock looked positively terrifying at the moment, his eyes blazed with a fire that had been long ignored, and John took in the scene to the best of his abilities. John wanted to memorize every detail of this Sherlock with his nostrils flaring and chest heaving. John also saw the moment the realization hit Sherlock like a _car wreck_. Sherlock looked down at the knuckles he had punched John with, eyes wide as a myriad of expressions played over his face for the first time, _shock, anger, despair_ and then finally the slip back of an old mask like a curtain falling.

Sherlock stared at his knuckles as if still reeling from the realization of what had just transpired between them, and looked up as his eyes settled on John. Even though his face gave nothing away his eyes glossed over, and John saw as guilt flashed somewhere deep within them.

Because Sherlock Holmes was _a good man_ and _always_ would _be._

Sherlock stepped back as his shoulders dropped and he raised his hands up in a manner suggesting explicit surrender and remorse.

_“John..”_

But John’s self flagellation had been given the perfect ammunition to implode, and he said the only thing that came to his mind.

_I love you, Sherlock._

“You’re holding back.”

*********************************

Sherlock realized that his vision was unfocused, he was decidedly looking everywhere except at John because he just couldn’t, he had punched him square on the nose. His hands were up in surrender and he chose a spot near John’s shirt collar to focus on; it had a drop of his blood that had not moments ago flowed freely from his nose. He desperately stared only at the blood drop and tried to _ignore the splatter_ ,

_The splatter stared back ._

**_I’d punched him._ **

_This is what your love is like Sherlock, it’s destructive._

_Cruelty is the opposite of love Sherlock, not some inarticulate expression of it._

**_I know_ **.

This was not the first time that he’d been physical with John, there were many other times, many other nights when they’d pretended to hit each other for show, an act, a childish play, cheap camouflaging technique he used to divert the subject’s attention from his face and make them focus on his injuries. Those were the misty reminders of a happy and content life that had been lived, the memories were as vivid as if it had happened yesterday but they felt like they belonged to someone else, almost too long ago. It felt like a millennia had stretched over these memories and he watched like a spectator from outside as someone else lived that content life that Sherlock had _nightmares_ about, he had nightmares about it because he could no longer have that back.

_It felt like a nightmare,_

He couldn’t possibly hope to replicate what he burned for, a desire so deep it persisted in his bones. His life had been _sectioned, categorized, fragmented_ into before and after _The Fall_ , a relationship set up like a time bomb, _a semtex vest_ that had begun it’s countdown the day Sherlock leaped off the roof.

“What?” He whispered incredulously as his eyes shifted from staring at the drop to staring at the wooden floorboard of 221B. He knowingly avoided looking at John, John -his bloody nose and his eyes without even a hint of surprise at the fact that Sherlock had punched him. He was holding his breath, waiting for John to reiterate what he’d said when Sherlock was too busy being appalled at what he’d done.

“You’re holding your punches back.” John said in a low but determined voice, and Sherlock closed his eyes at overwhelming pain that flared in his chest, they had finally snapped the tether that held them together, the pull that kept them spinning around each other’s orbit. Sherlock felt grief surround his entire being over a friendship about to be lost, the grief of finally losing the person he cared most about. They had taken each other for granted, treated each other harshly but before this fateful day, they had never ever left each other fully.They had been apart physically, yes, but they had never left each other in ruins. John’s voice ringed in his ears

_“You’re holding back.”_

And his eyes snapped and narrowed on John’s form, with his back rigid, tension flexing in his jaw and his hands clasped behind his back. Anger pulsed and burned through his veins, Sherlock could sense that a decision had been made that hung heavy between them, life altering perhaps. The siren calls of the end of an era flooded his system but John’s imperceptibly arrogant stance unfurled an another wave of uncomprehending anger in Sherlock, the word _Unfair_ rang like a bong inside his head and his eyes narrowed further while John’s chin jutted out and he calmly stared back at Sherlock.

“I would hold back my punches when hitting a _friend,_ of course.” Sherlock spat the word _‘friend’_ like it was _venom_ , positively seething. 

His restraint on his emotions gave way to anger, and he failed to deduce the most important and delicate substance that made the air thick with tension between them, it was evident in the way John clenched and unclenched his fingers behind his back. But Sherlock who was already on the edge finally failed to _observe_ , the only time that his emotions were truly clouding his judgment. And perhaps, his biggest lapse in judgment at this very moment was rejecting what his deductions were telling him.

***************************

John looked back at Sherlock, feigning arrogance in the face of the decision that he came upon. It was hard, _extremely so,_ to keep his posture rigid and chin up while his legs wavered, threatening to crumble at any given moment under the weight of the revelation that he had just processed.

Yes, he loved Sherlock.

It wasn’t an earth shattering epiphany; it was for him a gradual process of denial, remorse, grief and then finally acceptance where he dealt with the incoming flood of feelings like a man alone on a wayward ship in the middle of the ocean.

_Hope._

Hope, which could make a man do unspeakable things, kept him bound to Sherlock looking for possibilities until the infuriating and unattainable man, who was also the sole object of his affection, jumped. Denial kept him on the crumbs of this neutron star of a relationship but remorse and grief that followed rendered him gobsmacked. He’d worked out that he loved Sherlock long before he came back, which partly helped him move on. These were the quiet workings of thoughtful mornings where he wouldn’t even leave the bed for tea, when he would let this ache of a love harbored and lost wash over him. He would look in the mirrors, those very early and depressing mornings with grim relief of accepted feelings and the grief of having never spoken them out aloud.

_The joy of redemption._

However, short lived had filled him with happiness as such that he couldn’t explain. His Sherlock was back and was surprisingly well behaved with Mary. The events that followed had hollowed him out, left him empty and bereft but there was always _Sherlock, by his side._ Now the final stage, where he only felt acceptance, of the consequences that may follow, of the reactions that he would receive. He finally accepted that he loved Sherlock because this little fact couldn’t hurt them anymore, nothing could be changed because their relationship had hollowed out, there was _nothing_ to hurt.

But the heart wanted what it wanted, and no matter how much John Watson tried to control his body language, his eyes always gave away the verity of his feelings.

Sherlock was about to pull his punches, but John’s posture unsettled something deep in his chest. It was like a bell ringing in his head. John looked unreadable to Sherlock for the first time in his life. He was uncertain of John’s next step and that irritated him to a great extent. The uncertainty and unpredictably made his gut clench with unease, he needed _something._ A reaction to ascertain what John would do next, to unravel the emotional minefield that he was facing. He would have to set up for a fight, he knew that needed to. 

John looked hard at Sherlock, face unreadable but for his eyes, and they looked almost uncertain and afraid themselves. It was a hard climb to an inexplicably high mountain, this baring of _emotional vulnerability,_ years of conditioning made it hard but what was one more mountain?

**_Right?_ **

_Stop it Sherlock, you’re losing your grip._

John had staggered to his feet, with his eyes locked on Sherlock who had made him feel queasy under the intensity of such scrutiny, he breathed in small puffs with his chest heaving as his chest became constricted and his ability to take in a full breath vanished into thin air.

John only smiled, a very sad and disparaging smile, which made its way across his face. There was nothing Sherlock hated more than that smile.

“No, I suppose not. But I’m not really your friend anymore, am I?” John said, a bit louder, hands still clasped behind his back but unbearably steady. “I’m not your friend Sherlock, obviously I’m not.” John said, as Sherlock turned his back to him to hide the grimace that threatened to show up on his face, uninvited. John was practically begging for a fight, and Sherlock reeled, it was always the other way around. Sherlock did misguided, unprincipled things which turned into arguments, followed by him testing the extent of John’s patience.

It was _always_ Sherlock, who threatened a fight, _never John_.

**_You have to remember.._ **

_Maybe he’s telling the truth and you’re over analyzing his words._

_Focus, Sherlock._

“Haven’t been for a long time, so you don’t have to pull your punches with me.” John continued in the same determined tone as before.

Sherlock felt himself lose every ounce of his patience. His mind going absolutely haywire as he tried to concentrate on what he wanted to do next, but instead he ploughed on, “Unlike you John, I don’t think it’s decent of me to hit someone.” This was the last straw, they were definitely about to fight again, shout, yell obscenities, slam doors, hurl glasses. This would definitely give him an appropriate reaction, he would figure out the next ten steps to save face and then this bloom of uncertainty in the pit of his belly would recede. He blurted out, “Maybe, it’s your toxic influence on me, John. After all, I was always better off without you.”

_Perhaps, a bit too harsh?_

He immediately regretted saying _that_ , almost back pedaled but didn’t. 

_Was this even true? Was he actually better off without John? Was he seriously doing this just for a reaction? Or did an underlining sense of self preservation demanded this torture to end?_

John laughed mirthlessly, Sherlock felt as his head fell back and he laughed, a laugh so cold and empty that Sherlock shut his eyes again against the unsettling feeling that made his head spin. He could hear as John’s voice wavered and cracked, “It’s true Sherlock...

\--It’s always been true. I’ve never doubted my ability to negatively impact someone else’s life -- I mean, look at you. Look -- look at Mary.

I married her and..” John whispered,

\--She is dead.”

Sherlock's eyes watered, he tried to breathe deeply and looked up at the ceiling to control the tears as they welled up in his eyes again and again. He didn’t want this, he could face everything but he just didn’t have the strength to battle survivor’s guilt. He felt it himself too.

“I am extremely toxic.” John murmured quietly and _Sherlock_ ? 

Sherlock continued his deep breathing as he felt a treacherous tear slip from his eyes at John’s words. The desire to embrace John once again overwhelmed him and he left out a shaky breath. It burned bright in his bones but Sherlock stood rooted to the spot, with his back turned to his _whole world_ , _John_ ** _._**

_Very good Sherlock, you’re doing so great. Mummy and daddy would be so proud of you._

**Shut up**.

John continued, “But don’t worry, you’re safe _now_.” Sherlock’s eyes snapped open and he sucked in an inaudible breath at the tone of John’s voice or maybe he forgot how to breathe all together.

**_What?_ **

_He’s right Sherlock_.

_You’re safe now._

**_Shut up, Let me concentrate._ **

He’d anticipated a shouting match full of vitriol but not this, it was like John had just given up. And if there was one thing John Watson _never_ did, it was _give up_ on something.

“There’s a lot of things you’ll come to doubt, Sherlock. But never doubt that in my right mind, I’ll always first and foremost _keep you safe_.” John declared loud and clear for everyone to hear. Sherlock desperately wanted to turn around at this point but felt as if the ground had locked itself around his feet. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. He’d realized he hadn’t even taken in a full breath and waited as he heard John shuffle towards the door with a heavy gait.

_Hunching his shoulders, walking slowly, exhausted? Too much pressure on one leg, leg acting up again?_

And then a very soft, hardly audible.

 **_“_ ** Even from myself _._ **_”_ **

_John_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would again like to thank my readers for the love I got on my last chapter, your kudos and comments are what keep me going, so keep them coming.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If empathy was capable of ensuing such devastation on him, then one could wonder what actual apology and love would make him feel like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to my lovely betas Jo @jobooksncoffee and Kat @Sherlockwatson-Holmes. You both are amazing, and this wouldn’t have been possible without your support.

John wavered at the threshold of 221B for a moment longer, soaking up the moments and memories that he was leaving behind with the man he wanted to be with. It was intrinsically difficult, he felt tears prickle at the corner of his eyes again. He stared at Sherlock’s rigid back, as he stood looking out the window. It filled him with unbearable pain, the severance of a bond so passionate, who wouldn’t doubt his own mind? He kept questioning his decision of leaving the status quo, no matter how toxic, how painful it was for them both. Their relationship was a safety net. The thought of 221B, filled him with such a sense of comfort, that even the cracks of a broken person could be mended in a place such as this. It was a kettle filled with tea, it was Sherlock's experiments, some needed for cases and some to pursue his continuous quest for knowledge. It was body parts in the fridge with food, it was experimental apparatus in the microwave, eyeballs in tea mugs, it was the smell of Mrs. Hudson’s scones on a Sunday morning.

It was _Home_.

The cohabitation of the two most difficult people to find flatmates for, it would always be this _Place_ that resonated with their relationship and amplified it for the watcher who stepped through the doorway of _their_ home. Two men, very different from each other but who fit into each other like a key fit into a lock, the two pieces of the same puzzle that fit perfectly into the cracks of one another. Everything that made up 221B was not just mere furniture that filled up a flat, it certainly wasn’t just the interior décor, it was the very _essence_ of their life. It didn’t simply beautify the drab flat; it filled the air with a sense of security that even John’s own house that he shared with Mary had failed to provide. The burst of adrenaline fuelled giggles and tension leaden air after a near death experience; permeated 221B, it was companionship and the togetherness through a myriad of highs and lows. The thought of never coming home to that comfort and all the emotions that came with it, filled John with utter dread. 

He realized that Rosie would never experience 221B like he once did, when Sherlock and John were both young and fearless, their time stretching into different phases of their lives. A relationship so profound, that their brief acquaintance of 18 months changed John’s life forever. He also realised that Rosie would never experience the same passion and comfort of the confines of a home that actually felt like _home_ , and his vision blurred. He turned around only to be greeted to the phantom ache in his leg.

_Another ghost of the past._

He made his way steadily down the stairs and stifled a whimper as memories resurfaced of a past long forgotten and buried in the sea of loneliness that stretched before them. 

There was a revelation, not sudden in its disposition but where he accepted his eternal attachment to Sherlock, it was frankly disturbing and codependent in nature, but gave him a bit of relief and the ache surrounding his chest eased a bit. It was false and frail, a pipe dream but the picture gave John no less comfort. He quietly shuffled down the rest of the stairs and finally reached the landing, only allowing himself a small reprieve before he set out to leave the flat completely and probably permanently.

As he was turning the door knob, he stopped. He craned his neck back to observe the rest of the building in its entirety, every nook and cranny of this building held precious memories of a time too bright _,_ a time too happy for the universe to accept. The hallway leading up to the stairs reminded him of their first night and the breathless laughs that they had shared, 221C reminded him of Carl Powers’ case, Mrs. Hudson’s flat reminded him of how, _“England would fall._ ” These vivid images and memories made a rueful smile come across John’s face. The sense of the ache which’s immensity had lessened under the illusion of his false pretences, made its way towards John’s heart again, tugging his heart strings, clenching it viciously. However, John only smiled with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, it was dreadful and despairing, it held the power to hollow him out completely, but John held his ground, looked at everything that the place held inside it’s warm glow.

He turned and headed out towards a new phase of his life, which would possibly be the loneliest and _most_ aggravating, an emotional upheaval, ‘ _sure’_. John had the comfort of having done at least something right and altruistic for the man he loved, one last time, by leaving. He shut the door on his way out glancing at the shiny, bold letters that marked 221B as a place for _the_ _helpless,_ the desperate, the persecuted, and the unloved _,_ like him. John closed his eyes, picturing them in his head as he traced the edges of the brass letters, sighing out as the finality of his departure settled over him and he remorsefully turned away. His anxiety steadily increased as John’s feet carried him further away from his home; both the man and the house. John made his way through the streets never once looking back at the gloomy silhouette poised near the window.

**************************

Sherlock stared out of his window and watched as John left the confines of Baker Street with an uneven gait, perhaps, for forever. He felt utter despair spread in his chest as it constricted the walls of his heart and he shut his eyes before he could see John turn around the corner of the street and disappear from his view. He couldn’t bear to watch it, the finality of their departure from each other’s life strengthened by visual validation that John and he were done, was too much for even Sherlock to handle. He took a shuddering breath and leaned his head on the cool window pane, slowly breathing in and breathing out. His pulse thudded in his ears, and he clenched whatever surface first came in his hands- the curtains covering the window. He bunched them up in his hands and tried very hard to get his breathing under control. 

He could feel his pulse skyrocket and his breathing become more shallow and rapid with each passing second despite his valiant efforts of trying to focus and get it under control. Sherlock seemed to be becoming undone with every passing second, fully conscious and aware of his faculties but unable to stop himself from tearing apart at the seams. His face slid down the cool window as sweat prickled at his nape, determined not to relinquish his hold on neither the curtains nor the emotions that threatened to spill, Sherlock found himself counting back from hundred in french. The cool window pane served as an anchor as Sherlock tried and failed to ward off a possible panic attack, he could hear his rapid breathing, he could feel every drop of the sweat prickling at his nape and forehead, but he couldn’t do anything about it.

Sherlock felt helpless _._

This was getting unbearable and it had only been ten minutes since John had left the building, he was supposed to live the rest of his life like this? 

He inwardly scoffed at himself. What had his life turned into? He was Sherlock Holmes for goodness’ sake, he was no one’s quivering mess to handle, he was for all intents and purposes, _a machine._ He straightened his back and clasped his cold hands behind his back. He had one individual in his life for whom he cared for most in the world and he was gone, it was done. 

They were done.

He felt tears prickle at the corner of his eyes again and he sighed, this was going to be outlandishly difficult, isn’t it?

He turned back from the window pane as he heard the shuffling of feet up the staircase of 221B and was greeted by the sight of Mrs. Hudson coming up. Sherlock lifted his chin up and waited for her to cross the threshold of the flat.

Mrs. Hudson nervously kept wringing her hands, trying to ebb away the remnants of anxiety that she was filled with. She moved slowly, delaying having to talk about a topic as sensitive as John and Sherlock, but still determined to check up on him, she was _worried_. So instead of waiting out the brewing storm of another emotional breakdown in the confines of 221B, she had steeled her nerves and shuffled up the seventeen stairs up to their flat to check up on the young man.

His heart bloomed with intense adoration for the woman. She was formidable, no doubt, but he couldn’t possibly let Mrs. Hudson see how much he was hurting, how much his heart cleaved centimetre by centimetre with each step that John put between them. The pain and grief felt endless, bottomless even, but burdening Mrs. Hudson with the same pain would be a gross miscalculation on his part. Sherlock could allow himself only one gross miscalculation today and that was done. John had taken that chance with him when he had rounded the corner of the street and disappeared from Sherlock’s sight. Somehow, the idea of Mrs. Hudson knowing about the finality of their severance left Sherlock breathless. Her knowing that John walked out on Sherlock, made it seem like their separation was etched in stone and he was already too tweaked to handle the panic of it.

He felt his anxiety slowly build up as she made her way inside the flat. Sherlock could not do this. He simply couldn’t. He was trying to keep a cool and disinterested composure on the outside but, he could feel as his carefully constructed fallacies of masking his true feeling got usurped by the crumbling seams of his carefully controlled faculties.

_Oh god, this is too hard._

He saw her looking at him with sadness brimming at the edge of her eyes, quietly restrained for the sake of not upsetting Sherlock further. Sherlock looked away and stared fixedly at nothing, his eyes darted from furniture to furniture, from mantel to floor, decidedly avoiding looking at the sympathetic eyes of Mrs. Hudson that made his skin crawl. He heard her cross the threshold and tried to sneak a glance at her, but he failed as she caught his eyes.

He unabashedly stared at the motherly compassion that reflected back at him. Now that he was caught, he felt affection soar for her in Sherlock’s heart, it was only Mrs. Hudson after all. The mother who insisted that she was not his housekeeper, but continued to dust off his lilo and kept baking goods for him. The woman who’d seen them at their worst. Sherlock realised that he’d mistook the sadness in her eyes for sympathy and pity when it was actually empathy for what he was suffering through; it was not pity.

It was love and acceptance.

Suddenly the anxiety that first reverabted in Sherlock’s bones about breaking the truth to her evaporated and he felt a chill settle down in his bones as calmness enveloped his frantically beating heart in it’s throes. He felt as the tension flexing in his muscles relaxed, he was very sure that it was pointless to feel so perturbed, but the curse of the mind that second guessed every possibility left him with small fragments of anxiety still settling like lead in his gut.

There was no point being anxious, he tried to console himself by conjuring up the fact that she lived just below his flat. Even though she was nearing seventy, she is Mrs. Hudson after all.

_She already knew._

“Sherlock?”, Mrs. Hudson asked quietly.

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson?”

“John’s gone, isn’t he?”,She asked slowly, perhaps realising the answer to the question herself as her eyes raked over Sherlock’s face, trying to ascertain how he felt. But, the monotone of his flat and rampant internal monologue kept him at the edge, as he pondered what he should say next.

_Yes, Mrs. Hudson. John’s gone and I feel like I might die, you can write that down in your journal, the journal you’ve carefully kept hidden from all of us but, of course I knew. I know you have a journal where you’ve recorded the worst of Florida and the worst of my absence. I know that journal exists, of course. I’m Sherlock Holmes, I know everything but don’t you worry I won’t tell anyone. Honestly though, I feel like I’m getting burned from the inside out but it's all fine._

_It’s fine._

_It is what is._

“Yes, he is.” Sherlock said, surprised at his own levelled tone. “-- probably for the best too.” He added for the sake of being cogent. 

But Mrs. Hudson saw through the lies, and Sherlock anxiously stood transfixed as she made her way towards him. 

He held his breath as she came up close to him and closed his eyes against the feather light touch of her hand as she cupped his cheek, like a mother giving comfort to her heartbroken child. She cooed empathetically, “Oh, _Sherlock_.” 

He felt as his eyes burned with unshed tears and suppressed emotions in the face of her empathy. The emotions that had been kept closely guarded since this macabre started, threatened to spill and he felt a treacherous tear slip from his eyes as he cupped Mrs. Hudson’s hand back. The touch lay feather light but firmly on his cheek, grounding him imperceptibly to reality and to home. He gave her a disconsolate smile trying to hide the pain that his eyes showed as tears brimmed at the edge of his vision. He was trying to keep his emotions in check as years of conditioning took over his impulses. But, before he knew it, her arms wrapped around Sherlock protectively and he breathed a sigh of relief. He allowed himself reprieve from the deplorable and uncompelling facade that he was trying to keep up. 

Her empathy and acceptance, renewed Sherlock’s vigour to stand up for himself and acknowledge the pain he’d suffered and he allowed himself to reprieve from the burden of years of conditioning in accordance with this newly founded sense of self preservation, he allowed himself the ability to feel that pain physically and he finally allowed himself to _mourn._

He also allowed himself the magnanimous mistake of crying _,_ tears slid down his face in little drops as they soaked Mrs. Hudson’s palm. Tears validating the veracity of a grief so deep, over years and opportunities lost. It was a mistake to ever let himself feel. He hunched and circled his arms around Mrs. Hudson, going along and committing the felony of grieving for a love finally lost. After everything he had done to keep them alive and with each other, he had lost anyway. 

Irrevocably.

He cried as Mrs. Hudson soothed him by patting his back, and perched on the arm of his chair when he felt like his legs would no longer be able to support the weight of his body. His legs felt like they were made of jelly, and the duress of exhaustion hunched his shoulders instinctively, curling around himself as she kept holding Sherlock and patting his back. Consoling him, as he poured his heart out in the weight of the tears that flowed freely from his eyes. He cried and cried like he’d never done before, tranquillising tears continuously fell from his eyes as his body shuddered in her hands. He felt like he might have cried for an eternity before Mrs. Hudson spoke again when the intensity of the flow of his tears lessened, “You’ve lived far too long for others Sherlock, it’s time you started living for yourself.”

She continued, “Life is a long journey, my child. You can’t let heartache stop you. It hurts, i know but a life even so forlorn is capable of giving happiness to the sufferer. Ti— time heals, Sherlock. It may feel like your heart is cleaving in two right this second--” She slipped from his arms and smiled with tears in her eyes as she patted his cheek and whispered shakily, “--But you’re going to get through this Sherlock.. For yourself this time.”

“I hit him, Mrs. Hudson. I— I hit him.” Sherlock choked out.

His eyes unable to meet that of Mrs. Hudson. The facticity of his words were so heavy that Sherlock couldn’t just confess it. It was accompanied with a solitary tear that choked him, made him sway dangerously close to the other side of a clif that contained nothing but bottomless sadness. Mrs. Hudson’s empathetic words filled him up with unbearable amounts of woefulness, like a wave hitting the shore, the words that Mrs. Hudson used to comfort him, did nothing but drag his crestfallen and exhausted body to the verge of tears again and again, nothing more. This _feeling_ was so holistic and aggressive in its approach, that it left Sherlock bereft, with nothing to hold on to while he tried not to drown. 

If empathy was capable of ensuing such devastation on him, then one could wonder what actual apology and love would make him feel like.

“Listen to me, dear. What’s been done is done, nothing can change the past. Not even you, Sherlock.” Mrs. Hudson said firmly, gripping his shoulders to anchor a body so lost in space and time. Her voice was firm and determined, masking a hint of anger. Sherlock wondered if this is what made her survive all those years of abuse and lies that she suffered at the hands of her very own husband, and for the very first time Sherlock saw a glimpse of the Mrs. Hudson that wasn’t just his meek landlady, but a woman who’d started her life from scratch twice in one lifetime. 

“Mrs. Hudson, but I— ”

“No, Sherlock.”, She interrupted. “Not even, you.”

She took a deep breath and continued, “What you both did to each other was wrong. But, both of you share that blame, it’s not only yours. Give yourself some leeway dear, you’re _human_ at the end of the day.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to retort with a scathing but pointless reply. But, before he could form any words, Mrs. Hudson unhesitantly spoke over him, “Even if you do plan on moving on without John..”, She paused, and pondered for a moment as if choosing her next words carefully. She took a shuddering breath and said slowly, “ _You_ have to apologise for what you did.” Sherlock blinked at her, he had thought that Mrs. Hudson would undoubtedly tutt over their foolishness, maybe even try to be overly bright to lighten the mood but instead becoming overbearing like she always did in times of crisis and _domestics_ that occurred between the pair of them. But, he’d never anticipated a firm and unbiased Mrs. Hudson, a complete one-eighty from her normal self. No less, her talking in such a calculated manner, to share such seeds of carefully collected wisdom, left Sherlock speechless and rapidly blinking in the face of it. She mistook his rapid blinking for offence and continued in a much softer tone with her hand gripping his shoulder.

“If you really want to move on.. then you must mend the broken bridges before you do so, Sherlock. 30 years down the road when the flurry of cases would leave you and there would be nothing but endless regret to accompany you, the guilt of never having done so would leave you in pain. I’m telling you all this, because _I_ know.”, She finished unhurriedly, laying emphasis on the verity of her first hand experience.

Sherlock was shocked but not surprised, trust Mrs. Hudson to do the impossible and succeed in comforting the sociopathic detective who repulsed everyone else, not out of disgust though, but fear.

Mrs. Hudson’s words rang in his mind as he absorbed them like a sponge, most of her trivialities were on a permanent mute in Sherlock’s hard drive but this felt extremely important in ensuring his survival. So, he absorbed it. 

_Unprecedented circumstances, required desperate measures._

Sherlock could almost imagine himself 30 years down the road, alone and his chair, with thoughts of guilt and unspoken words of apologies pestering his mind, awaking buried pain of long and solitary years. Sherlock shuddered inwardly, and found himself seeing Mrs. Hudson in an entirely different light. 

Did Mrs. Hudson feel that pain too? 

It was clear from her face that she did, her face, consolate which supported every word that she said and brought her advice into a new light. Where Sherlock, saw the pain and sorrow in the emapsis she implied with each syllable she enunciated in the, _“I know”_

She murmured, “I know, which is why I don’t want you to experience that, dear.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.” He said when he finally found his voice, even so, it wavered painfully and Sherlock took in a deep breath to steady himself. He would consider all of this, he would consider apologising, he would consider recovery but right this second, the only thing his mind was capable of considering was the bone deep pain that he felt. The knowledge of even having to work out the complex and entangled mess that they were in, left Sherlock in despair, looking out for the future with a sense of dreadful foreboding instead of resignation.

He steeled himself and opened his eyes to give Mrs. Hudson a not-quite-there but genuine ghost of a smile, a very slight upturnment of the corner of his lips.

She smiled back, patted his cheek once more and turned to leave the flat and go downstairs. As soon as she reached the threshold of 221B, she wavered and turned around.

“Sometimes we need to know when to let go, Sherlock. So that we can have the time to heal and grow. It may seem like the only way to solve our problems. But even so, if life presents a second opportunity at happiness then, don’t ignore it. We all deserve a second chance, Sherlock.” She said, and finally left the flat. Sherlock could hear her shuffle carefully down the stairs and he smiled minutely at the nostalgia of her _herbal soothers._

Mrs. Hudson had told him to grab the second chance at happiness if it presented itself, but Sherlock felt unsure of the contents of this so-called ‘second chance at happiness’. What did it entail? His new life with no John? Or a new start with the barely visible silver lining of a possibility of recovery from the very much present emotional trauma? 

Sherlock felt dazed, he felt exhausted and in no way, shape or form, ready to examine the advice that Mrs. Hudson had left for him. He rubbed his temple as an ache formed behind his eye sockets. His body felt completely worn out, and the idea of succumbing into the mattress of his bed felt marvellous for the first time since the night of John’s wedding. 

It was only fair for him, to give himself a break from the emotional turmoil that he’d suffered in the span of _weeks, months even._ He would allow himself one night of uninterrupted sleep with no wandering in his mind palace and set off towards his bedroom, while wrapping his robe tighter around his lithe and battered frame. A chill had descended in his bones and the closer he wandered towards the proximity of his bed, the more he felt the magnetic pull of heavy blankets and soft high-cotton egyptian sheets.

_Tomorrow_

He would deal with everything tomorrow, he would weather the storm tomorrow but right now, Sherlock did something he never did when in crisis.

He opened his bedroom door and went to sleep.

~*~

John walked.

Instead of taking a cab back to his house in the suburbs, he walked. His leg flared up in pain and threatened to give out from under him time and again, but he held himself steady and walked along. It seemed too soon, too difficult to even think about going back to that place, with the street filled with these little families and their boring but immaculate lives, leading a normal life. John scoffed out loud,

_Normal_

John hated it, he hated that area. It wasn’t him, and the veracity of that truth hurt him more than living in that house did. John felt envious as of now, he’d worked so hard, only to end up with a tedious, boring life with Mary after the whirlwind that turned out to be Sherlock. He blamed himself naturally, his addiction to danger, his need for a purpose, his foolishness that he had ended up living in a life such as the one he was living when Sherlock spread his arms and fell from the roof, his coat billowing behind, arms flailing. He ended up merely _existing_ for the next one year, he didn’t live. 

John had stood there wide eyed as Sherlock fell, his legs rooted to the ground while his body forgot to take in a full breath until Sherlock’s body hit the pavement with a harsh thud. That sound, of a body hitting the ground, bones crunching and breaking under the duress of a fall from such a high building was still as clear as day in John’s mind. That memory came to him in flashes, sometimes in the guise of copper coins that Sherlock’s blood and matter on the pavement smelled like, sometimes it came to him in the form of dark and hollow whispers in his abhorrent nightmares, “ _Keep your fixed on me.”_ It says.

John doesn’t think he would’ve averted his eyes even if his life depended on it.

The next words that rang out in his ears were not said in a heart wrenching voice, it didn’t include the watery, deep and closed up voice of someone leaving a note. 

“ _Maybe it’s your toxic influence on me, John. After all, I was always better off without you.”_

It was a visceral, bone deep feel of gnawing impediment and affliction. The voice held none of the regard that he’d been accustomed to, it was cold, dripping disdain with every word. Even though it was partly John’s decision that the best course of action would be to leave Sherlock. He’d provoked and deserved the consequent reaction, but the words hurt no less. He’d tried so hard, lived far too long for his liking, but having to purposefully bury a relationship with his own hands, sent a sensation that was nothing short of cold, poison like pain in his chest. It had been visceral in its intensity, when John had stood with his back rigid and hand clasped behind his back, while his whole body screamed in disapproval of the commitment he was making.

Every cell and atom of his body wanted Sherlock at that moment, he fought every single one of them.

The idea of having worked hard so hard for happiness, forgiving his wife for countless lies, countless unforgivable actions and still being on the edge of that precipice where he’d stood five years ago felt like betrayal, he came out with nothing in the end, and that alone filled him with unbearable despair and sorrow. John’s reluctance to go back to his house just yet, didn’t singularly come from having to pretend like everything was fine in front of his neighbors, it came from his deep rooted fear of being stuck in there alone with Rosie, forever. A place where he didn’t belong at a time when he was highly unpredictable, unstable and unbalanced. He was afraid of himself, he didn’t trust himself. He felt furious with himself for being the way he was, selfish, for wanting two people at the same time, for wanting love from two people at the same time. When Sherlock had returned to the humble city of London and Mary was still innocent in John’s eyes, he’d wanted to love and be loved by her, basking in the attention and support he got from two people at the same time. He was angry at himself for not being able to settle down like other people of his age were prone to do, he was angry because,

_Why the fuck can’t I have a normal life?_

John faltered as the ache in his leg flared up, he halted, suddenly afraid of taking another step, for fear of falling over. He tested the waters after a while- John had stood there in the middle of the pavement while people bumped into him, muttering curses under their breaths. He took a tentative step forward and placed his foot on the ground firmly.

It held.

He resumed walking and realised that the sky above him had dark settling over it like a blanket, stars coming alive in a night as black as coal, glittering and scattering light across the night sky. John halted to a stop and stared transfixed at the welkin, so beautiful that it could make the modern western heroine blush.

_Not the time to wax poetic. Jesus Christ._

A memory resurfaced in his mind’s eye, sliding into the forefront of his mind like a black leather glove being slipped into one’s hand.

_“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Sherlock said, lips turning up imperceptibly into a small smile as he looked up at the night sky full of glittering stars while walking down the underbelly of Vauxhall Arches. That, while they were looking for a hit man, who killed his victim by squeezing the life out of them by his very fingertips._

_John felt giddy._

_“I thought you didn't care about things like that.” John said, amused at Sherlock’s sudden appreciation for nature’s commonplace but scintillating wonders. John was staring at him, he realised, but Sherlock didn’t turn his head towards him to acknowledge it. He wondered how his gaze would look like to Sherlock. Would he see platonic affection, fondness, adoration?_

_“Doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate it.” Sherlock said, while he buttoned his coat up, without even the barest of acknowledgement that John was still smiling softly at him._

_He knew how he was staring at Sherlock, it wasn’t platonic affection, fondness, adoration. It was something else entirely, very deep and fulfilling for what he was ready to accept._

John sucked in a breath and hissed through gritted teeth, it was a comforting memory at best of times, but now, it served no other purpose except to give him unbidden pain, the part of his heart that rang hollow because of the void of a missing person beside him. 

He raised his hand, gesturing for a taxi. A cab skidded to a halt in front of him, he settled in it and gave the cabbie his address. The taxi took off towards his bleak flat and John tried not to drown as his thoughts scattered into different directions, each demanding John’s sole attention, but John paid them no heed. He slouched further down the seat and rested his forehead on the cab's window.

He tried to breathe in slowly and deeply, desperately trying to sleep instead of trying to focus on any lines of thought and scenarios that his mind kept conjuring up for him. He breathed in slowly, focusing on the way his chest rose and fell, the way his rib cage lifted up to accommodate for more volume of air as the pressure gradient shifted and his intercostal muscles worked in tandem with the rise and fall of his rib cage. 

He breathed slowly for some time, almost meditating, before it grew deeper and paced as if in sleep.

The next time he opened his eyes, he realised he was almost home. The taxi slowed to a stop in front of his house, “We’re here, mate.”, the cabbie said, almost too brightly and smiled.

John wanted to knock his teeth in.

He glared at the cabbie and threw the requisite pounds at him, reminiscent of the way Sherlock threw money at anyone who asked for it, as if it was inconvenient for him to even spare the time for his hands to reach into his great coat and take out a couple of pounds to _pay._

John got out of the cab and slammed it shut, he turned around and steeled himself to walk into a place he barely called his own home and took off towards the house resolutely. If there was nothing in John’s life at the moment that he could call his own, then at least he had Rosie. His bright, doll faced girl, unprecedented in the history of children, she was. The thought of Rosie at home eased the cold, numbing feeling that had been magnifying in intensity since the time he’d left Baker Street. He wanted a distraction and Rosie could fill the gaping hole in John’s heart marvellously, with her winning ways and baby talk with slurred vowels trying to say _dada_ or what not. 

It wasn’t perfect.

But, it was enough.

He jammed his key into the lock, opened the door and let himself in.

“Kate?” He enquired loudly, and was greeted to a sight of a woman with ginger hair already carrying her purse on the other shoulder, but he was not paying much attention to her. He had his eyes locked on the baby girl that she was balancing on her hip. She held Rosie close, one hand carefully encircling her bum while the other ran llight and soothing circles on her back.

“Hi John, I was about to call you. It is quite later than what you’d originally asked of me.” Kate said, voice hiding an edge of disappointment and laced with judgement.

“Sorry, uh.. you know what the traffic is like.” John lied, quite badly, and added a smile to seem apologetic enough. He didn’t care one bit if it was inconvenient for her, he only wanted to hold his baby girl.

“Sure. Here, hold her. I’ve gotta dash for now, Text me if you’d like me to take care of her another time.” She transferred Rosie expertly into his grip, checking to see she was safely tucked into her father’s arm, she stepped back. She smiled at Rosie, eyes crinkling with genuine affection. Kate turned her head a bit, nodded at him and slammed the door behind her as she left.

John paid the slamming, the rattling, the traffic outside or any other sounds no heed. He looked down at his daughter and felt his heart swell with love for the bundle of joy that he was holding, he smiled at her lovingly, “I missed you, my darling.”, John said and kissed her forehead, caressing the sparse blond hair on her head. He loved his child with his whole heart, even though the resemblance to Mary struck a painful chord in him, he could never imagine abandoning his child. Kate was rightfully disappointed in him though, he had neglected her after all, passed her on from one friend to another, not giving his own daughter enough of his time and attention. Barely sleeping with her too, drinking away whiskey until dawn broke across the night sky, shameful of having sent her out to Kate just so he could drink instead.

He felt guilty, shame pulsed bright and red in his chest and he hugged her close to his body, trying to convey how utterly sorry he was. He felt remorse drip from his actions, he’d set a new low, even for himself. He’d been so selfish, so caught up in him, Mary 's death and Sherlock that he'd forgotten that he was responsible for a child now. Rosie was everything he had now, and damn him if he fucked this up to. 

He held and rocked her slowly, swaying his body so that she’d fall asleep on his shoulder. “You’ve no idea how much I wanted a hug from you right now.” He said earnestly, not being able to stop himself from smiling constantly at the toddler as she looked up at him with deep blue eyes, sucking and biting on her own fist as she clenched her other hand tightly on John’s shirt.

Rosie reminded John that he had a reason to go on. He doesn’t think that he’d have survived being separated from Sherlock if it weren’t for Rosie. He would’ve selfishly drunk himself into oblivion without looking back at anyone he may leave behind. 

Rosie and Sherlock, the two most important people in his life.

At least he had the comfort to touch and hold one of them right now.

John’s phone buzzed in his pocket, startling him. He pulled it out.

**GREG:**

**Want to meet up sometime next week, mate?**

He waited, trying to work out how and what to respond. If he was going to be by himself, he’d rather have the company of some acquaintances rather than letting his child be alone with him, he who was at the brink of a breakdown, would want to have someone to rely on. No more of being a recluse, it was time he tried to put his life back on track, John was many things but he was not delusional. He knew the risks a grieving parent possessed and John was nothing if not protective.

He typed out his affirmation and sent it to Lestrade.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wasn’t anything like what he’d experienced when he was away dismantling Moriarty’s network for the two years he’d been dead. That was a persistent soft ache at the center of his heart, constantly reminding him of what he’d left and what he’d loved. It came with a sense of contentment that he would go home in the end and be able to banish this ache, replacing it with the warmth of John’s friendship. That pain came with an end date, a deadline.
> 
> This was eternal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to thank my betas, Jo and Kat for enduring the many mistakes that I made and for always supporting me no matter what.

Sherlock had been drifting.

Drifting through hours, days, maybe even weeks, he wasn’t very sure at this point. The mere act of getting out of bed felt like a challenge, uncoordinated limbs in the morning with the systemic throbbing in the back of his head. It made it seem like getting out of the careful cocoon of his bed was not worth it at all.

What was the point anyway?

He knew that he’d resolutely thought about moving on with his life, wanting just one day of reprieve. However, that one day had somehow stretched into _days_ instead, the idea of straightening out the mess that his life had become, seemed less and less appealing as time went on. The fact that he wasn’t already jumping on the opportunity for a case, or even trying to get out and perform his day to day activities other than sulking the whole day, showed the depth of dismay and abysmal destruction that his insides were currently in.

Specifically, his heart.

Everyday he thought that he would go out of the flat, text Greg for a case maybe, play the violin even. But, the subsequent despair after waking up alone in 221B without the chatter nor without the hope for eventual chatter, made him feel forlorn and dejected. The conviction that came with making such enormous resolutions the day before, evaporated every successive morning with weight of the overbearing sense of despondency.

He’d even thought about sending John an email, apologising for the way things had been left between them and wishing him good luck with his moving on in life, just like Mrs. Hudson had asked him too. But his fingers refused to write, leaving him without a way to express his feelings into words. He would write a sample in his notes, hate it, delete it, write again and then delete again. He’d been trapped in this cycle for days now, never moving forward, stuck as if in a time loop. If he were being honest with himself, the email felt too formal, too impersonal for what he and John had gone through. It was not unlike a bad breakup and he found himself unable to breach their silent agreement of zero contact. He’d tried for days, but to no avail, it always came down to the same thing; a blank notes document staring back at him in mockery.

He was lying on the bed, hands splayed on his stomach whilst he unblinkingly stared at the ceiling. Any moment now, he would change tactics and try sitting up with his back to the headboard, arms crossed in his lap, looking down at his nervously fidgety hands instead of looking up, and try building up the strength to step out of this flat as he did everyday, without anyone’s prodding and nagging.

Today was not that day.

“Stop sulking in your room, brother mine. Even the bed must have been appalled by your static energy.” Mycroft called out smugly, making Sherlock scowl. Aside from the overbearing despair, Mycroft's mere presence in the flat was capable of disrupting his everyday life but now he had to go and ruin it when Sherlock was trying to have a sulk too. 

Mycroft provoked feelings of such hatred for himself that if Sherlock were capable of incinerating him at the spot with his glower, he would’ve gladly done so. His smug, bastard of a self indulgent brother who was incapable of keeping his sodding nose out of Sherlock’s business deserved it after all. But, Sherlock was not in the mood to indulge in petty squabbles, already too tired of the off putting sound, image, voice; presence. He simply brushed off Mycroft’s comment and stepped out of the master bedroom,“Good morning to you too, brother dear.” He replied instead, tightening the dressing gown around his frail body.

“No childish mockery? You wound me, dear brother. You truly must be in quite a _state_ to not comment on my diet the first thing in the morning.” Mycroft goaded, his voice tinged with a worried air that went unnoticed by his younger brother. For Mycroft, the tease and response routine was a checkpoint for Sherlock’s continued recovery even though it may seem cruel to an outsider.

No clever cut insult? 

Still mourning then.

“Let’s forgo the frivolous pretences, Mycroft. What are you doing here?” Sherlock scowled and glared at his brother. The knowing looks, the smug smiles, the forewarnings masked in the facade of making conversation, he was all too aware of big brother’s games. He wished for the first time that his brother would simply get to the crux of the matter, instead of stretching the already very tumultuous hold on his reign even more so, thinly. 

“What do you think I’m doing here, Sherlock? I’m here to ascertain for myself if you were doing—“

“I’m quite alright, Mycroft.” Sherlock sat himself down on his chair with a huff, and addressed his brother sitting in the opposite armchair. He wasn’t quite fidgeting yet, but he was very tempted to. The image of Mycroft sitting in John’s chair made his whole body twitch in repulsion, but he clamped that impulse down along with the growing need to scratch his arms or wiggle his toes. They were all pointers for Mycroft, evidence of Sherlock’s continued dismay, indicative of Sherlock’s state of mind and Sherlock was not interested in getting psychoanalysed by his brother. He was not interested at all.

“If you would only let me finish.” Mycroft chided in a disappointed tone, rolling his eyes and chastising him as if he was a child.

“Why would I do that? I knew what you were about to ask me, trivial question as it was, I simply saved us all the time and answered it for you. Quite obvious it is, _Mycroft._ ” Sherlock’s voice dripped with disdain and impatience at Mycroft’s name as he tried to keep himself in control. Sherlock kept losing his temper turbulently, Mycroft’s presence did prickle Sherlock’s senses whenever he came to the flat, yes, but it was usually not capable of riling him up so much that he saw red whenever his brother so much as moved into his line of sight. Sherlock’s tight grip on his emotions, the irritation that came with resignation and sadness of John leaving kept piling up on his consciousness, frustrating him further. It was foolish, childish even and he had to remember that picking up a fight of aggressive rebuttals with his brother was not what he had in mind when he first thought of the word: recovery. He tried to breathe in deeply through his nose, almost meditating as the air rushed in and out, calming his racing pulse down.

_In and out. Breathe in and out._

_“_ Sherlock, I was just here to see if you were alright and to remind you that your food inventory is practically non-existent. I was simply going to offer you my assistance and renew your stock,” Mycroft said.

Sherlock scoffed, “Leave right now, Mycroft. I’m not a child, I can take care of myself.” He snarled at his brother. Being treated as a child after all he’d done, after all he’d gone through, felt condescending. It was as if nothing that he had achieved in his life would ever ease the concerns, ever be mature enough for his brother to understand that he was a grown adult. His hands tightened, knuckles turning white into the soft leather of the chair with a sudden rage that filled his insides. His fingers carefully flexing on the black leather instead of wrapping around his brother’s throat, he blew out another huff of breath through his nose and turned his head to look at the hearth, resolutely not looking back at his brother.

When was Mycroft and every other person in his life going to understand that he was not a helpless man-child? He had done things in his life that no one could imagine, he’d learned things that the commonwealth could only dream about, he’d been and survived in places that he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy and he still came back. Everytime.

He’d shaken hands with the devil in hell. 

He’d still come back.

“Stop being so tetchy, Sherlock. Allow me—“ Mycroft coaxed softly, making Sherlock’s hackles rise further.

If Sherlock really wanted to put an end to this abhorrent conversation, he’d have to approach a different tactic and he knew it. Simple aggression, mean insults and mocking would lead them nowhere, Mycroft would keep provoking Sherlock’s plain desire to throttle his brother and Sherlock would keep giving fuel to fire by indulging in petty squabbles. The only way that Sherlock could think of, to get rid of Mycroft’s overly righteous arse would be cutting this conversation short. Sherlock turned his head back from the hearth to look down the hallway, deciding where to leap off to- the bathroom or his bedroom. 

If he were being really honest with himself, then he would say that it was not Mycroft’s tenacious persistence to hover around Sherlock that was grating at his nerves, at least it was not the sole reason, but it was the image of an unwelcome guest intruding in _his home_. 221B was his flat, his sanctuary and anyone hedging around it’s boundaries trying to intrude in a place where they’ve no reason to- that’s what grates his nerves, that’s what makes him furious. After losing Rosie and John, he has become very defensive of his boundaries, aggressive, irritable with other people (not that he wasn’t already) and even his brother wasn’t allowed to denigrate the boundaries that he was so carefully constructing again. Conducting a thorough check of his emotional state, Sherlock felt that he deserved at least a modicum of distance from having to interact with other people.

He leapt out of his chair with uncommon dexterity for a man who couldn’t even get out of bed ten minutes ago and fled to the hallway, “I was just about to go and get the shopping done, promised to help Mrs. Hudson. I’m practically leaving already. See? So, get out.” Sherlock snapped, not letting his brother finish and ducked into the bathroom, banging the door closed in his wake. The clear insinuation of Mycroft having overstayed his welcome, evident in the sound of the shower turning on.

Mycroft sighed, got up from the armchair and proceeded to leave the flat, umbrella swinging as it always did. The concern for his brother’s state of mind, not lessened even an ounce and making him wonder, if this was an indication of his brother breaking, or would Sherlock finally put an end to the despicable codependency?

Mycroft left the flat, feeling even less composed than he was when he came in.

~*~

Sherlock in Tesco?

It wasn’t anything earth shattering, he went to Tesco for loads of things. Mostly related to experiments and what not but it was still a case in point.

Sherlock shopping for groceries in Tesco?

Now, that was worth keeping a record of and Sherlock wondered why the earth hadn't already split up to swallow him whole. This was earth caving, after all. Sherlock was shopping for groceries and that too, helping Mrs Hudson as he went along with it.

It wasn’t as if he didn’t need to or he didn’t know how to, it was just that he forgot about the mundane details of life sometimes. He could remember something pertinent to a case from a detail he may have observed years ago but he just couldn’t remember when he was about to run out of milk. That’s just how he was, he remembered the important bits, the bits that held such gravity in them as if they could change the reality of a whole case or could change the course of a great culmination of events but he simply couldn’t bring himself to remember that yes, he would have to buy honey for himself too.

The trip to Tesco went swimmingly, with no bumps in the road. He got his shopping, paid and got out without antagonising a single customer or staff member. 

He came out of the Tesco holding two shopping bags filled with groceries and some things that Mrs. Hudson had specifically asked for. He held the receipt in between his teeth as he readjusted the almost spilling contents of the bag, more efficiently. He was rearranging the jars properly while holding the bag close to his face, still in open air as he felt someone shove past his shoulder. He looked up from the contents of his bag to see a couple striding forward, without looking back to even apologise.

“Idiots.” He muttered in indignation.

He was about to go back to arranging the contents of his awfully heavy shopping back that something about the couple caught his eye— The girl being practically dragged by her boyfriend that held her waist tightly. Too tightly, to be passed as affectionate. He determinedly set off after them, Tesco bags swinging in his hands as he tried to catch up to them. 

Sherlock strode forward, keeping the couple in his line of sight while he navigated the typical London pavement, overcrowded as it was, he weaved through it with renewed energy. Sherlock had a plan in mind, it was insane, he concurred. Even John would’ve said that it was madness but John wasn’t here at the moment and it was nothing, if it weren’t painful to be reminded of that.

Sherlock had to come to terms with an eternal journey of emotional pain overtaking him at times when he least expected or needed it, it was his lifelong battle. A life that seemed to slip through his fingers when he wasn’t paying enough attention, time racing forward while he continued to be stuck in the molasses that oozed in his mind. 

It was inconvenient, to say the least.

Mycroft coming home had one silver lining though, he did get out of the flat and managed to stop the movement of the slug that was infecting his mind, for however brief it would be.

Sherlock marched quickly, passing the couple in question with several long steps before he came to a halt and bent down while keeping his bags close to himself as if tying his shoelaces.

A few seconds passed before he felt a sudden push behind him, he quickly stood up with the bags forgotten at his feet for the moment, as he spun around to come face to face with the couple. The man, burly in appearance with his twisted in a grimace was glaring daggers at him, having forgoed the waist he was previously holding ever so tightly, as the young girl reeled back a little from having practically been dragged with quick steps as the boyfriend marched along. 

Sherlock held his hands out to grip the girlfriend’s hand and steady her so that she wouldn’t lose her balance while he swiftly inserted himself between the boyfriend and her.

“Are you alright, miss?” Sherlock asked, enunciating every word for better understanding by the women. The words had a lot of weight, and comprehension by the woman was paramount for the success of his plan. The girl said nothing but stared back with doe eyes as a look of confusion clouded her features. She nodded a couple of seconds later, very gently. 

“She’s alright, mister. Let her go so that we can move along.” The boyfriend piped up from behind, extending his hands as if to shake off Sherlock’s grip and hold it for his own. Sherlock let one of his hands free so he could take out the ID that he had nicked from Lestrade and flash it to the man. He craned his hands back to where he knew the boyfriend would be standing, flashing the police badge as he did so. “Police business from Scotland Yard,” Sherlock said, having flashed the badge only for an instant so that he could shut up the boyfriend’s constant pestering while not getting caught for the photograph that did not match his face.

Sherlock insinuated himself between them even more so and kept both the girl’s and his hands out of the man’s reach as he craned his neck to the side to address the boyfriend this time “And I’m asking her, not you. Don’t talk on her behalf. Give her a couple of minutes to talk to me,” he turned his neck back to the girl again. “Are you alright?” He asked with knowing eyes, praying that the girl would understand the gravity of the question he was asking and how it was not the misstep with which he was really concerned with at the moment.

Sherlock saw as the girl’s face clouded with confusion at the tone of his voice, laced with concern. Her eyes were boring into his, possibly trying to figure out the purpose for such kindness but Sherlock only stood patiently, hoping she’d understand what he was really asking. The girl’s eyes widened, her fingers tightened in Sherlock’s grip before she blew out a shaky breath, “What?” She asked, blinking wildly. Her eyes jumping from staring at Sherlock's face to see her boyfriend raging behind the man’s back. She must have seen him frustratingly glower at her because the girl cowered further. She opened her mouth and shut it again but she had her eyes fixed on her boyfriend, as if afraid of sudden moments.

“Don’t look at him, look at me. Talk to me and tell me if you’re alright.” Sherlock said carefully, breaking her contact with her boyfriend as he coaxed her eyes to look back at him by continuing to talk to her. She dragged her eyes back and stared at Sherlock, as if deciding to trust him. She took a good look at his face before she noticed the cut on his eyebrow and the fading bruises on his lower jaw. Her eyes settling on his injuries, Sherlock flushed, embarrassed to see him being flayed open by the girl’s eyes as she took in the signs of abuse on his face too. It was new, to be subjected to the same intensity of scrutiny that he’s known for. Sherlock steeled himself internally and waited patiently as her eyes stared at him, still gripping her hands as he waited for an answer.

Sherlock didn’t understand what she saw in his face but nevertheless, he was relieved when she tightened her grip on his hands and gently shook her head to indicate a no. 

Sherlock straightened from where he was hunched to meet the women’s height and took his phone out to call Lestrade.

“Hello detective inspector, I have a case of typical domestic abuse for you to follow through on. I have the victim right here with me, so send your least irritating officer.” Sherlock said confidently, aware of Lestrade’s shock and dismay over his handling of such a simple and perhaps, boring case.

It wasn’t though.

It wasn’t just a simple and boring domestic violence case for him, it was a pertinent feeling. When he first noticed the signs that the girl might be getting violently abused at the hands of her boyfriend, Sherlock had felt the strongest pull to make things right for. Somehow, he had to get her to break the vicious cycle of violence that she was going through, even if Sherlock had to physically pull her out of it. He was not an altruistic man, but in that moment protecting that girl had overtaken his mind, giving him a strange restlessness. 

Was it because he had been beaten too?

It may have been, but Sherlock hadn’t had time to analyse what he was going through. He was single-mindedly focused on only one task at hand.

Get the girl out.

“No, no, no, I’m not making anything up Lestrade. You know my methods, do you really think so little of me to say that I might be wrong?” Sherlock continued, ignoring everything Lestrade was saying but registering only the important bits to include in his rebuttal, excuses being made that this was not his division and that he couldn’t just arrest someone with Sherlock’s word as his proof.

“Lestrade, you can ask the woman yourself and she’d tell you the truth but you have to get here first. The pavement down the right of the Tesco near Baker Street. Hurry up, before the boyfriend combusts with rage.” Sherlock hung up as he spun around to the shouting voice of the man himself.

“What domestic violence?! She’s perfectly fine. What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” The boyfriend roared coming up very close to Sherlock’s personal space, trying to intimidate him by using his height, even though he was a tad bit shorter than Sherlock.

He shoved the boyfriend back and said, “It’s a domestic violence case, mister. Your girlfriend is quite evidently not alright, if it were anything to do with the fact that she just flinched when you shouted at me. If it were up to me you wouldn’t even be able to use your arms much less hit anyone, but I don’t take the law in my hands.” Sherlock stood ramrod straight as the boyfriend breathed rapidly, rage radiating through him, with his lips pulled back in a snarl.

“She’s going home. With me. Stop me if you can, fucker.” The man sidestepped Sherlock and charged towards the lady but he quickly placed his long limbs in front of the man’s feet, tripping him over as he extended a hand behind his back to protect her and moved to the other side of the pavement. 

The man, having fallen on his face, got up and charged for Sherlock this time, before Sherlock jammed an uppercut right under his chin and shouted, “Help! This man is harassing the girl.” 

Sherlock had placed his faith in the good nature and moral compass of the general genial populace and without disappointment, several people, onlookers, bystanders that were quietly watching the whole sequence unfold immediately burst into activity. Three men gripped the boyfriend’s arms before he could try and hit Sherlock again and several others started flanked his sides whereas others steadily increased the distance between him, the girl and her boyfriend. Soon, he found the boyfriend seated at the edge beside the flats and Sherlock standing far away from him near the steps of an insipid flat.

The shopping was left forgotten at the middle of the pavement, it was a miracle that none of them tripped over it. Sherlock sighed as the whole situation beared down on his mind. He shook his head to dismiss the thoughts and was about to step forward to grab the Tesco bags before he felt the girl tug at his hands. 

“I’m here, I’m not going anywhere. I just need to get my shopping bag, someone may trip over it and we don’t want that to happen, do we?” He reassured the girl, patting her hand covering his own before slipping from the girl’s frightened grip and walked towards the bags. He picked them up and brought them back to be kept on top of the stairs while he stood beside the girl.

Ten minutes or so passed, spent with the boyfriend glaring at Sherlock and Sherlock glaring back. He didn’t try to talk to the girl and the girl didn’t volunteer, they stood in comfortable silence before he saw Lestrade’s panda car stop a few metres down the road from them. 

Lestrade jogged up to them followed by Hopkins, passing the boyfriend as he did but not sparing even a glance at him as he beelined straight for them. 

“Sherlock, are you alright?” Lestrade asked, out of breath but concern in earnest on his face.

“Of course I’m alright. It’s the girl you should be concerned about.” Sherlock said, indicating the girl with both his hands. The girl was standing at his side, arms crossed over her chest but hunched a little. She was decidedly avoiding looking either at Lestrade or at Sherlock, continually ignoring her boyfriend’s death glare also.

“Miss, are you alright?” Lestrade asked the girl, taking in the way her whole body language shouted no but she resolutely kept her silence, still not looking at Lestrade.

“Miss, you have to tell me if this man is abusing you. We need an official statement, otherwise we won’t be able to help you. Do you understand?” Lestrade coaxed, he had seen many domestic violence cases in his day as a sergeant to know that the victim always took their time before speaking up about it. The victim, so traumatised by years of violence, abuse and harassment that they couldn’t even meet the eyes of the police officer helping them. Some gathered the courage and called the services, which ended the night with them being free, another life saved from abuse while others sustained years of it at the hands of their abuser. Some cases though, that were inherently gruesome, consisted of months of abuse that finally lead to the death of either the abused, the abuser or both. No lives saved in the end, and the night ending at heartbreak and sorrow of another person lost because they couldn’t stand up for themselves.

The girl nodded slowly and lifted her head from staring at the ground to finally look at Lestrade. She nodded again, after having looked back at him and sighed in relief.

“Okay then. Hopkins! Lead the girl to the panda car and take her statement.” Lestrade turned back to call out, relieved that this night would end with a life saved rather than the opposite. He saw as Hopkins gently steered the girl towards the panda car, holding her elbow and talking soothingly. But he also saw as the girl craned her neck back and mouthed a ‘thank you’ in Sherlock’s direction. 

Sherlock smiled and nodded but failed to notice the upward twitch of Lestrade’s mouth. If not for anything, it was unbearable to think that the meek girl wouldn’t be able to get out of the vicious cycle of abuse if someone didn’t push her to. And if it happened to be Sherlock Holmes who provided that extra nudge, then so be it because nobody deserved to be treated that way. Nobody deserves to be hit upon and to endure such corporeal punishment just because their heart tells them that they’re loved. Nobody deserves to be beaten at the hands that first traced the outlines of their body lovingly. Nobody deserves to be verbally eviscerated by the same mouth that left impressions of love all over their body, supple and marked for the whole world to see, and finally nobody deserves to be resented with the same heart that promised to love them forever.

Sherlock's mouth twisted in a grimace, as the images of John and him flooded his mind again. All forms of images, whispered praises and abandoned touches filled his mind and heart. The promise of love, persistent and constant in the periphery of his mind, mixed with the bitter feeling of a presiding ache in the middle of his chest. There was a feeling, suffering at it’s surface, but ardent in its disposition— and Sherlock understood it for what it was; resentment. It was resentment at what his life had become and for what he’d suffered through, years of emotional upheaval that he’d endured fervently. He had suffered at hands of destiny that hadn’t been kind, and to a life that hadn’t been easy. He had endured suffering and was enduring it still, earlier it was by the whips of the mortal enemy. Now, it had become the whips of his own remorse and loneliness. He understood an important lesson now, as he did before his two year hiatus,

Distance does make the heart grow fonder. But he also realised that the absence of love had taught him more than it’s presence ever could.

“How did you figure out that she was being abused at home, Sherlock?” Lestrade said, pulling Sherlock out of his own reverie.

“It was easy, the woman was hunching forward, always protecting her rib cage as if waiting for a blow. Probably because her chest must be bruised and battered from all the kicks she was enduring. There was faded bruising at the sides of her neck that I saw when I took her hands to ask her if she was alright, extra padding in her right shoe because of a recently broken toe, upper not forward. Which is why her left shoe looked flatter in comparison to the right. She flinched when the man shouted, suggesting that she was well acquainted with shouting but was also prepared for what followed; blows. If I were to start at the top then I’d say that I first noticed something was wrong when she passed me, her boyfriend was gripping her waist tightly. Too tightly. She was leaning away from him with one of her hands covering her chest and her other trying to keep a steady distance between her and her boyfriend, as if ready to bolt if things took a turn for the worst. Her behaviour aroused my suspicion which was confirmed further as I moved forward with my scheme.” Sherlock finally concluded, without even stopping for breath as he deduced at a break-neck speed- the inner workings of a violent relationship, leaving Lestrade absolutely awestruck. 

Lestrade knew Sherlock was a bloodhound when it came to cases, deducing everything about the victim after setting his eyes on them for even less than a minute. He pursued such cases with intense vigour and thoughtful deductions, this was typical domestic violence, and the same thoughtfulness being directed at the abused by Sherlock filled Lestrade with a sense of pride for the young man he’d once found, drugged out of his mind but begging to be on any case. It was Sherlock’s tact with the woman that surprised him and it made him wonder how much the whole Culverton debacle had changed Sherlock. But then John’s “ _I hit him hard.”_ creeped into his mind uninvited and he felt as the flame of pride in his chest was replaced by something like sorrow, heavy as lead. 

“Besides, Lestrade. _I know.”_ Sherlock said calmly, knowingly. Aware of how much those words affected Lestrade, they were not the only one mourning the demise of a great friendship. Lestrade had known that John Watson was good for Sherlock Holmes from the day he had limped onto the crime scene with the pink lady, but the universe had other plans. They were devoted, loyal, smitten with each other from the very first night; inseparable. But somehow, constantly being separated.

Sherlock grabbed his shopping bags from behind, where it had laid until this very moment and strode towards Baker Street. Not looking back as he kept increasing the distance between Lestrade and himself, it was nice to have been out of the flat after all.

He did get to throw an uppercut.

Lestrade sighed, and walked up to the boyfriend so that he could cuff the bastard.

~*~

Sherlock went home feeling much better, a blanket of serenity and goodwill had quietly deposited over his mind and heart, making him feel much calmer and content than he’d been in days now. It was the act of having done something altruistic for an innocent girl, saving her life without having to solve any murders first that had alleviated his mood so much.

Sherlock was floating on the feeling of being a Good Samaritan when he came home. He smiled to himself as he trudged up the seventeen steps to 221B, with the shopping in his hands. He had dutifully given the share owed to Mrs. Hudson back to her and had surprisingly blushed as she had cooed and smothered him with praises for having brought home shopping for the first time, without causing an incident. 

Sherlock deposited the heavy bags on the kitchen table and walked to the sitting room as he unwound the blue cashmere scarf from around his neck. He threw the scarf over the brown chair near the hearth and slid off the coat from his shoulders to be hung up on the hook beside the entrance to 221B. Lonely as it was on the hook, he caressed the coarse wool of the great coat and forlornly observed the empty pegs besides it.

A bitter laugh escaped his throat as his eyes watered. Grief was unavoidable but had strange times to pop up, uninvited, when trivial things such as empty pegs and empty chairs brought it back. It sprung up on him, unbidden, at odd times, leaving him feeling empty, hollowed out and shaken up. His tears threatened to fall, so Sherlock breathed in deeply, trying to compose himself without falling apart like he did last time. It was pertinent that he contain any form of emotion that spilled out of him impulsively, it was this wreck of his feelings after all, that had wrung him through such a labyrinth of pain and chaos. It had taken four years of his life. 

Might as well have shaved off fifteen.

Sherlock turned back from where he was standing near the pegs to look straight at the laptop that remained half open on the coffee table near his chair. He stared at it and then tracked his eyes down the length of John’s chair, it mocked him because of the symbol that it had been degraded too. That chair reminded him of their time together, but now it only mocked Sherlock for his loneliness whenever he looked at it. The pair of chairs together triggered a sense of foreboding in the pit of his stomach. It foretold a future where John’s chair would turn into just another piece of furniture, as ornamental in its value as a love long dissolved but never forgotten. It would open Sherlock’s wounds every now and then. Reminding him of what he’d lost in his youth, making him miss its rightful owner painfully. 

If John were still in Sherlock’s life then he wouldn’t even have been in Tesco. The absence of John stung him greatly now and then, the void of missing someone at his side, grating at his nerves day in and day out. After having done and accomplished so much to keep their friendship alive, this was where he’d finally arrived at; loneliness. It wasn’t anything like what he’d experienced when he was away dismantling Moriarty’s network for the two years he’d been dead. That was a persistent soft ache at the center of his heart, constantly reminding him of what he’d left and what he’d loved. It came with a sense of contentment that he would go home in the end and be able to banish this ache, replacing it with the warmth of John’s friendship. That pain came with an end date, a deadline.

This was eternal.

Sherlock dragged his eyes back to the laptop strewn on the coffee table carelessly, he decided to confront his emotions and compose the email he had been dreading to write out for days now.The promise of apologising and Mrs. Hudson’s words ringing clearly in his mind, he crossed the distance to it in a few long steps and sat down in his chair with a huff of breath. Sherlock had a strong, new idea. His resolution was fueled by the success of the plan at Tesco today, He felt recharged with renewed energy to decisively move forward with his life. Having helped that girl, Sherlock believed that he could try and help himself too.

Sherlock booted up his laptop and opened his email.

Scanning the scarce and unimportant mail that he’d received he was about to compose his mail to John that an ad caught his eye.

‘Cottages in Sussex’ it promised, and Sherlock couldn’t help but think about starting over, away from everyone and transforming his old dream of beekeeping into a new passion. It was the perfect opportunity, his mind looked back on all those summers he’d spent with his grandmére as a child, soaking up knowledge from the ‘A Beginner’s guide to Apiology and Apiculture’ near the French cottage that they were taking a holiday in. The memories of the warmth from the sun, the flowers, Grandmére’s caressing hand, brought up a sense of revival somewhere deep in his soul. 

He felt hope. 

Email forgotten for the moment, Sherlock started to scour websites to buy a suitable cottage in Sussex. 

It was time to start over again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for long time I took to update this, but as it happens, life gets in the way. I would like reiterate that kudos and comments fuels this despondent writer to keep writing, so thank you for those.

**Author's Note:**

> A note for the readers of this story, the italics in whole sentences as part of the formatting have been used to depict the internal train of dialogues for both Sherlock and John.  
> The bold and italics have been used as part of Sherlock's primary internal monologue and just italics have been used for both MP Mycroft and MP Moriarty.  
> Ps: Instaces where only italics have been used for Sherlock's primary internal monologue.
> 
> Thank you to all the readers, all comments and kudos are highly appreciated in this house,as this author's primary form of fuel for motivation and enthusiasm are the same.


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